Writer. Filmmaker. And such.

Tinder is the Night

For a man who lived life on the straight and narrow for over 30 years, snorting coke and fucking a total stranger over the course of back-to-back weekends was an unexpected twist.

The coke caught Eddie completely off guard. However, fucking a stranger came with a pre-meditated sense of guilt.

His foray into uncharacteristic debauchery started in L.A., where spent a weekend meeting potential investors for the film he had been trying to get off the ground for over six years. (Things developed slowly for Eddie).

A Hollywood acquaintance that he met at a conference five years ago invited him to a party. And after one too many bourbon-soaked cocktails, he lost his sense of self.

When in Hollywood…

For most of the night, he sat on the sidelines, reminiscent of his elementary school playground during recess – an outsider looking in.

“Want some?” his acquaintance asked.

“Want some what?” Eddie said, oblivious to the line of coke awaiting him.

When he realized what was going on, he responded without trepidation, as though he were being offered a mere cookie.

Though he had stopped drinking over an hour ago, he apparently had just enough to impair his ability to say no to drugs.

Goddam bourbon.

Within seconds he went from a booze-induced zombie-state, to hyper-drive. He didn’t just feel high. He felt like he was fucking in flight.

As for his actual flight home the next day, he could barely remember a damn thing.

Had he even slept? He had no fucking clue.

His wife noticed his frazzled condition the second she greeted him at the airport. He blamed it on jet lag. No further explanation needed.

Despite still feeling the effects of his bourbon and cocaine cocktail, it didn’t stop him from attempting to have sex. Though it had been months, he figured five days away would be his best shot.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder?

He was wrong.

Not only did she reject his advances…but it led directly a prolonged argument. And as usual, she would rather argue about what a sex fiend he was for two hours, rather than just throw him a bone every now and then. In the rare instances they did have sex, she acted as though she was receiving a botched root canal from a crazed ape. She blamed her non-existent sex drive on her anti-depressants. But it was even worse when she wasn’t on them. At least when she was on drugs, she could do a better job of pretending to like him.

“If all you want is sex, why not just find someone else?” she asked him for not the first time, not the second time, but God knows how many fucking times.

“All I want? It’s been five fucking months! And how? Who? I never had game when I was single. Let alone now. Plus, I don’t want to risk you leaving me.”
“I won’t leave you. Just make sure it’s not someone I know.”

Though tempting, he couldn’t grasp his head around the fact that that she was willing to risk him falling for someone else, rather than just having sex with him every now and then. It had been over a year since he received anything as much as a hand job. Three years since his last blowjob.

This time, he wwawould do something about it. He spent the better part of the next day at work perusing sites like Ashley Madison and AdultFriendFinder, but quickly realized that he was too cheap to keep footing the bill. Plus, it was too risky, even though he did handle the credit card bills. Ultimately, he couldn’t but feel as though he were soliciting prostitution (though, in someway, prostitution would have been much easier). As desperate as he was to get laid, there was still part of him that wanted to first find someone he shared a strong mental connection with. He was never one to have random hook-ups. Not even in college. But he now found himself in a situation where he had no choice but to have exactly that. Of course, the last thing he wanted to do was fall in love with somebody else. At least, he didn’t think so….

Furthermore, after doing a fair amount of research, he realized that these sites were rife with “bots” – fake profiles that closed the lopsided gender gap with the sole aim of trying to lure men into spending more on the site And then there were the professional. “escorts” disguised as regular women. Which was worse? At least the latter scenario led to sex. The former just left you with a sad dick in your hand and a ball of wadded up tissue paper in the other at the end of the night. He settled on a tie. Then there was his fear of being cat fished.

Enter Tinder.

Despite being aware of its reputation as a hook-up site, he was a tad reluctant to become a Tinderfella. The fact that it interfaced with Facebook seemed just too much of a risk. And what if those he knew saw him? In fact, he had to make sure that the person he swiped had no mutual connections between them, which for most people, was probably a selling point. He had to remain discreet, yet he knew that not using a photo at all would give him no shot whatever. To limit detection, he avoided using a close-up and left part of his face hidden.

Once he got past his initial jitters, Eddie quickly learned to appreciate the left-right ease of the whole thing. It felt more like a video game to him, than real life. With potential to quickly turn into a wormhole. Perhaps, just right swipes alone would give him all the ego boost he needed. It wasn’t just sex he wanted. He needed to feel wanted. Needed.

However, the high of racking up matches could only last for so long before you just had to reach out and touch someone. It wasn’t long before he mastered the skill of being able to formulate a message short enough not to sound desperate, but enticing enough to get someone to take the hook. His initial interactions were a mixed bag (he once right-swiped a cheeseburger). His decision to be upfront from the start (married…but with a greenlight!) backfired. He got it that most women didn’t reply back. He wasn’t exactly an ideal catch… but he was tad surprised at how judgmental Tinder could be!

Many matches reacted to his honesty by immediately disappearing off the screen in a simple Poof! Some expressed some form of condolences before they disappeared. Some thanks him for his honesty. Some preached morality. One simply wrote: “That’s fucked up.” Another said: “sounds like a personal problem.” Another asked: “Why are you telling me this? I don’t get it.” Several asked point blank: “Why don’t you just get divorced?”

Great question. Why didn’t he? It wasn’t like he hadn’t pondered it before, but he couldn’t convince himself that lack of sex was a good enough reason for divorce.

Or maybe it was? And their relationship was certainly far form perfect in other categories, too.

One thing he knew for certain: though he was willing to cheat on his wife, he didn’t want to become a serial tenderizer. If he could just find a married person in the same boat as him. But did he want that extra layer of guilt? Cheating on his own spouse was one thing, but to cheat on someone’s spouse while cheating on your own spouse?

By the third day, he finally found a match willing to meet in person.

Enter Catholic guilt.

It was one thing to let his fantasy play out behind the safe confines of a screen.

But real life was a whole other situation. Dating was never his strong suit when he was single and he lacked the confidence to assume that any woman would be that willing to hook with him right off the bat. He doubted he could ever live up to a right swipe in person. And on top of the guilt he was already feeling, there was a growing sense of paranoia that he was getting himself into something that would require payment when it was all said and done.

And though he technically he had “permission”, he still felt like he was doing something wrong. The implied “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy of finding a sidepiece still demanded a fair amount of sneaking around. He just had to keep reminding himself that he didn’t choose the circumstances that lead to this point in his life. But he could choose to accept them. And therein lies the rub.

And what could he have done more of himself to make things better at home? And should that be his focus now? Or, was it already too late?

Would his physical desperation be enough to eclipse everything else? He thought so. As he drove to the bar, every possible negative outcome swirled in its head. He arrived almost a half hour early and found a table outside on the patio. The chill of early spring was in the air, but he needed the fresh air. He would let her decide if they would move inside when she arrived.

In the meantime, he hoped that one Manhattan would be enough to both warm him up and take the edge off of his nervousness. But it didn’t. It only gave him more time for his conscience to kick in. What also wasn’t helping matters was the fact that he felt a massive shit coming on (a problem he remembered from his dating days). Everything pointed in the direction of just getting the fuck out. So he high-tailed it back to the parking lot, hoping to go undetected.

Back in the safe confines of his car, he sent her a text: “Can’t go through with it. Sorry. Pretty sure I will regret this.”

“Your loss,” she texted back.

And he immediately regretted it.

He took a day off of Tinder.

But like a gambler who just can’t help rolling the dice one last time, along came Maggie.

He right swiped and discovered that she was already waiting in the wings as a match. What ultimately appealed to him even more than her physical beauty was her quirky profile. Most profiles played it safe and cliché. Some didn’t even include a profile. Even though he was looking for someone to fuck, he knew deep down, he needed more than that. He needed a poet, which of course put him into dangerous emotional territory. If past history was anything, he simply wasn’t wired to have random hook-ups. But in his particular situation, it was probably best for the sake of his still salvageable marriage.

But was it salvageable?

However, there was one red flag at the end of her profile: “I’m not married. And neither should you be.” It certainly wasn’t the first profile he encountered with such a disclaimer, which proved one thing to him: Tinder was a breeding ground for desperate married men like himself. Though this made him feel a tad icky, he reminded himself that he had been granted a “permission card.” But then again, did he really? Did she really mean it? And how good would he be about covering up his tracks? It was probably only a matter of time before she found out. And then what? Would she stick to her promise? Or, leave him? Would she be curious to know who he was fucking? Would this somehow turn her on? The questions that clouded his mind were endless.

But his hormones finally won out.

Three hours later, through the sheer magic of his writing skill, lit aglow by a new, much-needed muse, a date was set for the next night.

“All you have to do is ‘woe’ me,” Maggie wrote.

“You mean, ‘woo’?” Eddie wrote back.

“Yes. No woe. Just woo.”

Though he lacked confidence in his ability to woo, he was confident that a wee amount of bourbon could be just what the love doctor ordered.

Their situations were a perfect fit. She was at a point in her life where she was tired of looking for the “right” guy and wanted a casual fling – a NSA FWB. Based on her looks, personality, and interests, she was exactly what he was looking for. But did he have the balls to go through with it?

As for his wife, he used the guise that he was headed out to write done, which he usually did a couple of times a week. He mind worked better when surrounded by the buzz and whirlwind of humanity…and more importantly, it kept him awake. Furthermore, he didn’t have to sit around and dwell on the sex he wasn’t getting at home. Out in public, anything felt possible.

As long he made it back home around his usual time round midnight, give or take, he was at least confident that his plan was relatively foolproof, lest in the circumstances of a car crash – or even, worse – death. His wife would have to live out the rest of her days wondering where he had been heading to. And why. Would she blame herself?

It was a risk he would have to live with.

Aside from that concern, the ease in which this was all happening sent off the alarms of paranoia.

He mulled over one thing in particular that she wrote: “You found me at a very vulnerable time. So you can fuck me anyway you’d like. But just be sure to cuddle with me when we’re done.”

Can’t be that fucking easy, can it? Was this another red flag? Do “real” women actually say this?

After all, it had been 12 years since he last dated and way before the social media age. A lot had changed.

As far as cuddling was concerned, it was even more absent from his marriage as sex. In fact, even more so. Both cuddling and any form of foreplay was strictly verboten.

Next thing he knew, he was on the road, concerned that the half-hour drive that loomed ahead would sound the trumpets of morality.

You want this.So stop prolonging it.

Surely, this is a ruse.

If she’s fake, you will be able to tell in person.

Are you sure?

Nobody can ever be sure about anything.

Of course, if she did turn out to be legit, he had little faith that he wouldn’t come across as a complete, socially awkward weirdo, which would severely cripple his “woo-factor”.

Just be yourself.

That’s exactly part of the problem.

He finally arrived at the bar she suggested, which was conveniently not very far from her place. Before he got out of the car, he took a deep breath, and then said aloud: “You can do this.”

His window was down, along with the car next to him, of whose inhabitant happened to hear him. The awkwardness had already begun.

As he got out of his car, he checked his phone and saw a text: “Seated by the bear.”

Presumably neither a real bear; or a gay man.

As he approached the bar, he wondered if he was being tracked through the window and became self-conscious of the fact that the second she saw him, he would no longer be just a picture in her mind. It would be the real him. And he feared the real him couldn’t live up to a single, static picture. Since when did women find him attractive, anyway?

Maybe she feels the same way.

He finally reached the entrance, took a deep breath, and entered. He scanned the room, figuring he had a better chance at recognizing a bear before her.

But he couldn’t find a bear anywhere!

Where is the fucking bear?

He approached the hostess.

“Can you please point me in the direction of the bear?”
“I’m sorry. Who?”

Fuck. Am I in the wrong place?

“A bear. Is there a bear in here?”

“Oh, yeah. Right over there.”
She pointed toward a back corner. And sure enough was a bear, carved-out of wood. And just to its left, Maggie. She was as beautiful as advertised.

He nervously approached, feeling totally out of his league. She smiled eagerly.

“Maggie?”

“Yes. Hi, Eddie.”

He offered his hand. She stood up and greeted him with an unexpected hug, which did more to calm his nerves than he would have guessed. It had been over a year sine he last hugged his wife. And not for a lack of trying. As his wife liked to make clear: she wasn’t a “huggy person”.

Maggie smelled so nice. Would his wife smell it on him? Would that be all it took? Nothing he could do about it now. He could always blame it on a strip club.

They took their seats and he realized she was already halfway through a beer. Was she impatient? Or was she nervous?

He hoped the latter.

The waiter approached. He ordered a 7 & 7.

“Nervous?” she asked.

“That obvious?”

She smiled.

“So, are you?” she asked.

“A little,” he said, suddenly growing less so.

“You?” he asked.

“No. Should I be?”

“No.”

“This is all so surreal,” he said.

“What is?” she asked, with what sounded like genuine curiosity.

“All of this. Being here. With you. On a date. It’s been awhile.”

“You’re going to be fine,” she said, placing both of his hands into her soft, warm ones, dissolving his anxiety.

And she was right. Their conversation couldn’t have gone more smoothly – an endless, effortless stream-of-consciousness. Based on their chats the previous night, this shouldn’t have been too surprising. He honestly couldn’t remember a conversation with

somebody who seemed to interested in what he had to say. It felt like therapy.

“I feel like you should be charging me!” he admitted.

“Oh. You will pay me back,” she said. It sounded like a threat, but her seductive smile let him know that it wasn’t.

But where was it all heading? Should he wait for her to make the next move? And what exactly would that move be?

He would get his answer soon enough.

“So, I have gerbil who is an asshole,” she offered out of the blue as she finished her third drink.

The ensuing explanation wasn’t as important as the fact that she said it. Because somehow, it broke through the last remaining layer of ice.

“So when do you turn into a pumpkin?” she finally asked him.

“As long as I’m back on the road by 12:30, I should be good.”

She looked at him seductively:

“Would you like to come to my place and meet my gerbil?”

“I would love to meet your gerbil.”

And with that, he picked up the tab (she insisted they split it. He insisted otherwise. She graciously accepted).

He followed her back to her place – a five minute rive that ended on a dirt road at a dead end. He ignored all the signs.

If anyone should have felt in danger, it would be the female allowing a complete and utter stranger back to her home.

Is this normal?

He got out of the car and took in his surroundings. Though it was pitch black, the sound of honking geese made it evident that a pond was nearby. He looked up at the sky.

“Wow, you can really see the stars out here,” he said. She nestled in closer to him.

“It’s one of the main reasons I love living here. Even though I’m still close to the city, I’m still far away enough to see stars.”

“And the geese!” he replied. “Why are they still awake?”

Is that the best I can fucking do?

“Those are swans,” she explained. “And they’re probably looking for mates,” she said turning to face him, with a seductive glint in her eye. He pulled her in for a kiss, as though he had no other choice, even if he wanted to. Five minutes later, she was disrobing him in he upstairs bedroom and issued this mandate: “I want you to do to me whatever you want. But only after I take you in my mouth.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I want you to do to me whatever you want.”

They made out passionately, before she decreed:

“I want you to fuck me,” she finally said.

“Shit,” he said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I left something in my jacket. Downstairs.”

“What?”

“Insurance…” he said.

“I’m covered.”

“Aren’t you worried about diseases?”

“Should I be?”

Eddie wasn’t about to take any chances and started to head downstairs.

“No, I’ll get it,” she demanded. “In your coat pocket?”
“Yeah.”

He found her reaction slightly askew, but assumed that she didn’t want him to freely wander around her home, which was certainly reasonable.

While she disappeared downstairs, his cock turned limp, which gave him time to gave pause and ask himself:

What the fuck am I doing?

Exactly what you have been wanting.

A cool, but comfortable breeze wafted through an open window, which faced the pond where the gees—swans!— honked their midnight melody. The curtains even bellowed, like something right out of a goddam movie. As his cock turned limp, he twirled his wedding ring for a second, then took it off. He wanted it out of sight. He didn’t want her to see it. He set it on the dresser and tried to ignore the fact that it was the first time it had ever come off. He felt a slight tinge of sadness, but it faded the moment Maggie returned with his the three-pack of condoms he purchased en route.

They continued to make out and his cock was returned to its full glory in no time.

And then they fucked.

It was a quick finish, which was not a surprise considering how long it had been. But for sake, he was able to keep going.

“Don’t you need a break?” she asked.

“No,” he said, thrusting harder. “It’s my superpower.”

“Wow. You’re amazing.”

And they continued to fuck.

And fuck some more.

And fucked and fucked and fucked.

And fucked some more even after they were done fucking.

And the geese trumpeted outside the window.

And the curtains continued to bellow.

And he knew he would be sore tomorrow in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

Every few minutes, he asked her if there was anything she wanted him to do, and she whispered the same refrain into his ear: “Whatever you want.”

What he wanted to do was give pleasure in equal measure.

“I want you to do to me whatever you want,” she repeated.

So he made her come three times. He came with her on the third time.

The third time, they came together.

They collapsed into one another’s arms, though he got the sense they could both go another round if they wanted to.

Instead, neither spoke. They held each other, their limbs interwoven like a pretzel, as swans echoed in the night.

“Thank you,” Eddie finally managed to mutter.

“Thank you,” Maggie said.

He looked at the clock, then loosened himself from her grip.

“I hate to do this, but…”

“You gotta go…”

He nodded.

And then, like an unexpected hammer to his face:

“So, you can leave $250 on the nightstand before you leave.”

He laughed nervously, but her face appeared to mean business.

“You’re joking, right?” Eddie asked.

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised…” Maggie said with a whole shift in demeanor. A mere flick of a switch.

“Surprised?” Eddie asked. “We just had sex. And now you are asking for money. How do you expect me to react?”

“Don’t tell you don’t know how to this works…”

“Prostitution? Yes. I do. But I didn’t think that – this – is what it was. You’re joking right?”

“You had voids that needed be filled. And I filled them. So now, it’s time to fill mine and pay. You got what you what you wanted, right?”

First, cocaine. Then, prostitution. What the fuck came next?

“I’m sorry for the confusion,” she continued. “I thought this arrangement was clear from the start.”

He scanned his mind for any evidence this would have pinpointed him toward this direction. But aside from the general paranoia he had felt, nothing specific came to mind.

“So, $250,” she said, as though he had forgotten.

“Yeah, well, there’s just one problem. Do you take credit cards?”

She laughed.

“You’re cute. But no.”

He fumbled for his wallet, opened it up, and revealed that he had only about $30 for cash.”

“Where is the closest ATM?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know…”

“Yes, I would, actually.”

“You got to be fucking kidding me…”

As he threw on his clothes, she gave him directions.

He felt a knot in his stomach. Though he could get away with charging anything and everything on his credit card, his wife kept close tabs on their joint ATM account. He thought about using his credit card to take out cash, but he didn’t know his PIN. And did he really want to deal with customer service at a time like this?

He realized that aside from the ATM issue, he was now going to be arriving home later than expected. Hopefully, his wife would be too sound asleep to notice, which was usually the case. And since he slept on the couch most nights, it was easy to slip in undetected. It was only when he came into the bedroom that she noticed him.

She led him to the door.

“I promise I’ll be right back,” he said as he headed out the door, where he

was greeted by the now familiar swan chorus, now accompanied by large black man with a parrot on his shoulder.

What the actual fuck?!

“This is Antonio,” Maggie explained. “Antonio, take this gentleman to Community Bank. He needs to make a withdrawal.”

“Come with me,” the man he presumed to be either her pimp, or personal bodyguard said. The parrot repeated: “Come with me!”

You got to be fucking kidding me.

Antonio put a meaty, black hand on the back of Eddie’s neck and led him to his Navigator, complete with spinning rims.

Of course…

Antonio opened the passenger door.

“Thank you,” Eddie said, surprised to be the recipient of such special treatment, as he climbed in. He then realized it was more of a precautionary measure to keep him from bolting, rather than any sort of gentlemanly gesture.

Antonio went around and climbed into the driver’s side.

“Buckle up,” Antonio demanded, out of breath. Under ordinary circumstances, Eddie never neglected to buckle up. This was a rare misstep.

“Buckle up,” the parrot repeated, still perched on Antonio’s shoulder. Did this parrot hear this phrase often? Or did it just have exceptional repeating skills?

As Antonio pulled out of the driveway, he spotted Maggie in the doorway, half in shadow. He still couldn’t compute how a person that he connected to on such a dynamic level could turn out to be prostitute. He couldn’t help but feel impressed at her master con-artistry. In fact, he found it fucking sexy.

Antonio put on some slow jams and nodded his head to the music. Not a word was spoken. It was all so romantic. The soothing tones of Luther Vandross calmed Eddie’s nerves, which – considering his present circumstances – was quite a feat. Besides, what did he really have to fear? He owed someone money. And had the means to get the money. Problem solved. And nobody gets hurt. Not that he had any experience resembling any of this.

But then his creative paranoia conceptualized a whole new scenario: what if Maggie’s sole purpose was to teach cheaters a hard lesson? What if she were a black widow, who used Antonio as the hired assassin to finish the job? He certainly looked like a man capable of doing such a thing – at last as much so as any large black man with a parrot on his shoulder jamming to CeCe Winans could. Was this his mild prejudice kicking in? Nothing he could do about it now. But could he escape? Perhaps not without putting himself in even graver danger.

They finally arrived at the bank. Antonio must have trusted him enough to wait in the car as Eddie approached the ATM. Then again, he probably stayed in the car to make things appear less suspicious in the eye of any passerby or security cameras. At least now he could avoid the performance anxiety he was likely to feel had Antonio been looking over his shoulder.

“Buckle up,” the parrot said right on cue, despite the fact that Eddie already had beaten him to it.

Antonio drove them back to the Swan Queen’s house, serenaded by the soulful seduction of Isaac Hayes.

When they got out of the car, Antonio led Eddie back to the house with his strong hand on the back of his neck once again.

Maggie greeted them at the door. Eddie handed her the cash.

She took it without saying a word, clearly annoyed by the inconvenience he had caused.

“Are tips standard etiquette?” he asked.

“Up to you,” Maggie said.

He added an extra $10, wondering if 20% was standard. But fuck it. He never wanted to make this purchase to begin with.

She gave him a hug and even told him he was welcome back anytime.

As he headed home, he realized that despite the monetary setback (and the need to come up with a reason why such a withdrawal was made so late at night in a town he typically didn’t frequent), he realized that in the end, it was worth every penny. He got what he needed. And he looked forward to the following weekend, when he could simply just relax.

And maybe…just maybe…there would be a next time after all!

He pulled into his driveway, fully at peace with everything that had transpired that night. Hell, he finally had something new to write about.

He shut off his engine, then noticed something familiar was missing: his ring.